


Thomas Thorne Drabbles

by kenwayhoe



Category: Ghosts (TV 2019), Ghosts BBC - Fandom
Genre: Light Angst, slight AU, unrequited love themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:48:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27809353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenwayhoe/pseuds/kenwayhoe
Summary: A series of drabbles about Thomas Thorne to be updated periodically.
Relationships: Alison & Thomas Thorne
Kudos: 24





	1. Feelings Shouldn't be Complicated

"Thomas?"

"Yes Kitty?"

"Do you actually like Alison?"

It was one of the quieter nights at the Button house when Thomas received an unusually sincere question from Kitty. He turned to her from his position at the window seat and was met with the sight of her slightly worried eyes. _It isn't usually evident but she truly has a heartfelt soul_ , Thomas thought.

"Well, yes, of course. Fair Alison is the North star I have been searching for throughout many dark and aimless nights."

"Ah, I see."

But Kitty seemed unsure. Rather, she seemed unsatisfied with his answer. Possibly hoping for another but not quite knowing how to get him to say it.

"Why do you ask?"

"Oh! No reason at all! I was just curious about love, you know how I am!"

In true Kitty fashion her arms swayed and fiddled with both the air and her dress like she wasn't sure what to do with them. For a ghost who has been around for many, many years, she was still so young.

"Ah well, goodnight Kitty." The poet said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

"Yes! Goodnight Thomas!"

Odd.

* * *

Thomas wasn’t actually angry with the other ghosts. As he stormed away from yet another loud room, he knew they were not at fault for his writer's block. When he was alive he never had any issues writing poems about his muses no matter the circumstances. So why couldn’t he write about Alison?

“Alison, oh Alison, one so fair like a… like a… oh nevermind.”

Maybe inspiration would strike him in the library.

* * *

Love is complicated by nature, but one’s feelings shouldn’t be. Should they?

Thomas felt happy whenever he was with Alison. He felt happy whenever he thought about her. But did he long for her? Was there a yearning in his bones?

* * *

  
  


“Kitty?”

“Yes Thomas?”

“Do I like Alison?”

Now it was Kitty’s turn to be surprised at her friend’s question.

“Thomas?”

“I mean, well yes of course I _like_ Alison! But do I love Alison?”

“Tho-”

The poet cut her off now pacing back and forth in front of Kitty, hands flapping about, voice raising and hastening with speed.

“I find myself questioning that a lot these days. I _do_ like her...I do! I just...I don’t know…” he came to a stop, “I don’t know Kitty” he said softly this time.

“Oh Thomas…” Kitty sat up and enveloped him into a hug.

Thomas’ built up anxieties seemed to slowly melt away as Kitty’s tight hold and warmth spread over him. For just a little while, he didn’t feel quite as lonely.


	2. A little bit of pain, a little bit of cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit contrary to how the fandom generally perceives Thomas. Even I'm unsure of it to be honest, but once the idea came to me, I couldn't not write it!

* * *

Thomas Thorne died never knowing what a kiss felt like.

In spite of all his love filled overtures, there was always a particular detail left out. A lack of passion felt. He had kissed many things throughout his mortal life. Letters, lady’s hands, his work. But never was the day when his lips met with another’s. It wasn’t to say that there weren’t opportunities. His small yet earnest following included many women who were plainly keen on him. Anonymous notes dressed in lipstick marks and perfume were hint enough.

Thomas, ever the romantic though, felt that kisses were not meant to be so readily tossed at the next suitor. Rather, they were a special delicacy to be savored with one whom he shared a profound connection with.

Throughout Thomas’ short life, he had many he loved in a distant sort of way. There was his first love Rosie, playful and sweet. And then when he moved from his hometown as an adolescent, he found love in charming Lavinia. None of his previous loves compared to Isabelle though. Not to say that she was prettier or wealthier, but his feelings had finally reached a depth that he felt could only mean she was his soulmate. With how his love ended though, perhaps he should have stayed dedicated to his work only.

Sometimes when he was lost in thought about dear Isabelle, he would find that his hand had been pressed against his lips. At times softly, a gentle brushing of skin, and other times more sternly, a silent plead. In those moments he wished he could feel at least a little bit of pain.

When Alison moved in and Thomas first saw her kiss Mike, he had to excuse himself from the group. The ghosts paid him no mind as he stumbled away, unconsciously having the sense to only raise his hand to his mouth once he was out of sight. Slowly his index finger traced his bottom lip. Neither heat nor cold radiated from it, just the expected centuries old tepid feel. Even cold lips would have been preferable to this.


	3. A wound you can't conceal

The day after Thomas’ past was truthfully revealed, a most curious thing occurred. His wound had disappeared. At 0800 hours, all the ghosts crowded around Thomas, but none could come up with a decent theory.

“Be he slowly sucked off?” Mary offered but was quickly disregarded.

“Did he get closure?” Julian joked to which Thomas glared.

“I think it’s best we wait till Alison wakes up! Maybe she’ll know what’s going on, she always seems to know everything!” Kitty suggested naturally.

But if anyone knew about ghost physics, it would be them not her. After 7 more minutes of crowding and wondering though, the ghosts quickly got distracted as was their tendency to do. Thomas then withdrew to his sighing place where he ran his finger over the now mended skin at his shirt’s hole. At least that reminder was less painful, but a reminder, nonetheless.

* * *

The next day the hole was gone. His shirt was once more complete for the first time in centuries. Even the blood had gone from his sleeves.

The previous day’s actions were then repeated. Mary asked the same question, Julian joked, and Kitty missed Alison. Once the ghosts tired of crowding and wondering, in less time today, Thomas retreated instead to the place where he was shot, or rather, the place where he died.

He ran his finger over the place where the hole once was. He had “lived” with it for so long he knew the spot by memory. The cloth underneath his touch felt foreign despite it being the same material on the rest of his vest. Thomas stayed there all night and into the morning.

* * *

Further development was brought by the next day. There was a new wound on the dead poet. A letter opener was lodged into the upper section of his back. Thomas had been unaware of this development until Kitty pointed it out in the common room. As the ghosts were starting to get drawn in by her panic, Thomas quickly fled before they could crowd him this time.

At the edge of the woods, Thomas stood very still. His eyes were wide, his chest heaved under the weight of his heavy breaths, but he could not move and he could not stretch his arm towards his upper back to feel for the protruding weapon. He simply could not.

The following day no one saw Thomas. In fact, no one really saw him for a week. The ghosts would occasionally get a glimpse of him as they went on morning searches for him, per Kitty’s insistence, but they knew they would have to wait until he was ready to come back himself.

On the 9th day since the letter opener appeared, Thomas finally sought it out. Only able to slightly brush his fingers against the handle.

On the 11th day, he was able to wrap his hand around it.

On the 14th day, he begrudgingly made his way back to Button house.

The morning searches had stopped but every so often Thomas would catch a glimpse of Kitty anxiously looking out from the garden for him. She attempted to go into the woods many times, but she was too scared to go looking for him by herself. Thomas’ heart was still in an icy state, but his friend’s actions were slowly warming it up again.

* * *

When the poet got back to the ghosts, no one mentioned anything to his surprise. No comments about his disappearance, his dramatic antics, and not even about his wound. In one moment, when it was just Thomas and Julian alone in a room, it seemed as if the former MP wanted to say something.

He had a sorrowful look in his eye and his hand was hovering midair as if he wanted to pat the poet’s back, but he suddenly thought better of it. Thomas was grateful for it. He wasn’t sure if he could address it yet, not in this millennia. Still, it was nice to know that the others were looking out for him in their own sort of way.


End file.
